Another Day's Work
by Lewie
Summary: His cooker is dead. What to do? What to do?
1. Default Chapter

Another Day's Work

by Stephen Mulligan & J. M. McClure

What was going on?

Why had he been called? He never got a call in the middle of a project. Not from this buyer; the man held his privacy too close to ask for meetings that were anything less than handing over the finished product.

He got out of his car, carefully shutting the door behind him. It gave a hollow echo around the deserted parking lot, too loud, making him feel alone and vulnerable. He flinched at the noise, shattering the stillness, making his presence too obvious. Not that the buyer wouldn't know he was here. The man seemed to have unnatural senses; he knew when you were near, he knew when you were skulking your way out of the area. He had eyes you didn't want to look into.

He closed his eyes, taking a deep breath of air, trying to soothe suddenly stressed nerves. The parking lot was poorly lit, his shadow thrown before him, like it was running from him, trying to escape.

Did he know?

He couldn't know. He shook his head angrily, driving the thoughts away. That was just stupid. All he was doing was scaring himself. He'd been careful, oh so fucking careful. There was no way anyone could know. No way.

He walked across the dark parking lot, one flickering, popping, snapping flourescent light their only illumination, listening to his footsteps, hollow and harsh, walking towards him, the man leaning against his car.

"You're late." The buyer lit a cigarette and took a drag, blowing a harsh ring of smoke into the empty air, the end of the cigarette glowing like an ember, almost, but not quite illuminating his face beneath the cocked hat.

He realized then that he'd never seen this man's face, not that he was seeing it now, not with the flickering light and the low brimmed hat down around his forehead. Nothing but valleys and shadows. "Traffic. There was a lot of traffic." He swallowed hard, his mouth suddenly dry, aware that he was babbling.

The buyer smiled, his lips pulling back from his teeth like an animal showing his armor. A smile colder than the parking lot. "Tell me, how much did James Robisinki offer you?"

He knew. Oh fuck. He knew. "It wasn't like that..."

"What was it like?" The predator's smile had disappeared, had slipped off his face like water through fingers.

"He approached me. I swear I knocked him back. I told him no, I told him I worked for you, that you already had a deal set up, that he needed to talk to you."

Two brief flashes of light, two sharp reports... ...and he fell to the floor of the parking lot, blood, black in the moonlight, pooling around his body. The buyer holstered the gun, pulling his coat tightly around his body, trying to keep the cold away. He nudged the body with his boot, making sure the man was dead.

Damn.

Now, he needed another cooker.

xxxXXXxxx

She sat alone in the crowded bar, nursing a drink, letting the sounds and smells wash over her.

Trying to drown her loneliness and her memories beneath the companionship of strangers and damn good Scotch.

"Now, what's a pretty girl like you doing drinking in a place like this by herself?"

She looked around, raising her eyebrows, a half smile twisting on her lips. He was tall, taller than she was, with piercing eyes that caught and held her like an embrace, a fine layer of stubble coating his jaw.

He laughed, shaking his head. "I can't believe I just said that. I'm sorry, that must be the stupidest thing that ever came out of my mouth. I'm sorry. Can I buy you a drink to make up for being such an idiot?"

"Sure." She lifted her drink and downed the last of her Scotch, ice rattling against the side of the glass. "Scotch on the rocks."

"Scotch on the rocks for the lady." He sat down on the vacant stool next to her. "So what's your name?"

"Eva."

xxxXXXxxx

He'd had to leave the apartment, if only for a few minutes, and just for no other reason than to watch the storm building and fuming and fussing in wind and charcoal cloud through slate grey skies. Miles leaned on his apartment's balcony railing enjoying the smell of coming rain, the feel of tufts of wind on his face, the rumbling and grumbling, as the sky prepared to drop its payload down on them.

He loved thunderstorms. Had loved them for as long as he could remember, the cool wind, the wonderful taste to the air, the 'sturm und drang' when nature's light show got going. As if on cue, lightning streaked a lance of gold through the darkened sky and thunder clapped right behind it. The first fat plops of rain started to fall. Time to get back inside, he decided, back behind the safety of glass and measured air and the warmth of his own apartment.

Closing the double glass doors, he left the curtains wide so he could still enjoy the sight of the storm; and it looked like it was going to be a doozy by the original expert in pyrotechnics. Miles figured he'd even take ten or fifteen minutes out of studying medical journals just to sit back and watch.

He hadn't made it back to his chair before he heard the knock on the door.

xxxXXXxxx

She couldn't believe she was doing this.

Maybe it was the memories she was trying to drown,memories of her foster father, of the closet and his belt. Maybe it was the memory of too many nights alone, of too many mornings waking in an anonymous hotel room, of her life slipping through her fingers.

Maybe it was the Scotch.

It was raining heavily now, pouring down around them like a thick curtain, soaking through their clothes, as they ran, laughing, from the bar to the car, his large hand almost swallowing hers. She couldn't remember the last time she'd laughed like that.

Thunder crashed and she jumped, startled. She'd always hated storms, hated the noise and the sudden flashes of light. The sudden flash and release reminded her of her foster father's temper.

His arms slid around her, pulling her back against him. "It's okay, Eva." His breath moved her soaking hair, tickling her skin. He kissed the line of her neck. She trembled in his arms, not from fear, the falling rain, the storm forgotten.

"I got you."

xxxXXXxxx

Miles knew he was supposed to use the peephole on the door.

It was there for a reason and the reasoning was sound. He knew that and he always meant to use it, it was just that it never usually occurred to him. No one came to his door that he didn't either know or who didn't have a reasonable purpose there. So it was normal procedure for him to just open the door when someone knocked or rang the bell. It had never gotten him in trouble before, in spite of the times Frank had ragged on him about it whenever he came over. It was probably Frank anyway with some call to duty on his only day off in six weeks.

But all good things must come to an end.

He hadn't gotten the door all the way open, before it was slammed into him, catching him in the forehead with enough force to throw him backward and send his mind spinning. Thunder roared outside and inside his head.

xxxXXXxxx

Darkness. All around her. Darkness, thick and real and terrifying.

Eva lay, shivering, her soaking clothes cold against her body. Listening to the rain drum against the trunk of the car with impatient fingers. Trying to think, to remember everything he had said.

What was his name?

Trying to keep her mind active. Trying to hold off the memories she felt stalking her, closing in around her, like the panels of the trunk.

Like the walls of a closet.

Her head swimming, Eva tried to control her breathing. Tried to think back through the evening, through the haze of Scotch and...

"Where are you, you little whore?"

A sudden flash of lightning, visible through the crack in the trunk, a roll of thunder, amplified by the closed trunk, a snap like the crack of his belt. She drew breath to scream, stifled by the gag, thrust between her jaws, her silent scream echoing like the thunder inside her head.

Who was he?

The rain fell on, uncaring.

xxxXXXxxx

It started in a flash of a second. It lasted forever.

Miles had never been beaten up before, not even when he was a skinny freshman, several years ahead of his grade. It was nothing like on TV where the hero went "oof" a couple of times and then beat the hell out of his assailant.

Miles never got a punch landed. He didn't even really see the guy who was so methodically beating him. The first blow had happened so fast and knocked the air out of him–he heard a 'crack' in his ribs–so that all he could do was try to find enough air to keep breathing, much less strike back. The man's face was a grey and red-tinged blur through the pain as the man seemed to know where the best points of contact on the human body lay and landed a blow on each of them.

He heard another crack in his chest, felt the skin of his face split under the impact of a tightly knuckled fist, took a couple of more blows to his belly, and went down.

Being down didn't save him either. So much for the bad guy getting his point across and then walking away in a manly huff. Nope. This guy went with his feet next, and Miles wondered if 'that' was where the spleen really was? He couldn't do any more than try to roll into a ball to protect his belly and his groin. He didn't know how many kicks were landed before the room got quiet.

Deathly quiet. Ten seconds can last forever.

Then the roaring of his own lungs trying to bleed air from nothing, his head whirring with strange noises he'd never heard before, and the crack, rumble, boom of the night outside.

"Hey, hey, kid, look at me, look at this."

Rough hands turning his face, patting his cheek, and he managed to open one eye, the other seemingly permanently glued shut.

"This is a message." The words were faintly garbled, burbling in past some shocking sounds rumbling around inside his body. "You are a message. Get it? What I just did... it's nothing to what I can do."

And somehow through all the agony twisting him, he felt something hit his chest and land there, a light clunk that just settled in. He didn't see the man leave or hear the door close. Just that grey-red tinge to everything that made his own living room look like an alien landscape.

His fingers didn't want to obey him, just going off all waggly on their own with his hand trapped by inertia. The phone was only a foot away on the small couch side table that had somehow managed to avoid damage. Just sitting there mocking him.

He tried to sit up but pain stabbed him in his back, was echoed in his rib cage. It felt like something in his chest was broken. He'd hate to have to be the E.R. doc that diagnosed him. It felt like everything in his body was broken. Lying back on the carpet–God, it felt soft, good carpet, he thought as his mind started to wander just out of his reach–he worked at getting some air into his lungs without actually breathing. Didn't work, he had to breathe at least a little just to survive. He was a doctor. He should know that. His thoughts were breaking up like a radio with bad reception and the thunder outside the window was starting to lull him into unconsciousness.

Then he felt it again, resting lightly on his stomach now that he'd tried that abortive effort at rising. His left hand seemed to work better than his right hand, so he reached for it with that one and wrapped his fingers around it, wondering what it was, why it was important.

It felt like a chain but there was a bump on it. With a great effort he pulled his hand forward, opened it enough to see.

It was a watch. No, not a watch. Eva's watch. He'd taken it into the shop for her just last week when the chain broke.

The new chain seemed to be working fine, he thought.

xxxXXXxxx


	2. Another Day's Work, Part Two

The rain fell.

Connor sat in his car outside Miles' apartment, the headlights doused and dampened by the rain. Peering up at the one flat where a light still gleamed, solitary and defiant against the storm. Trying to stop his mind from working, from conjuring an ever worsening image of what had happened to Miles.

"He's okay." Connor spoke softly, his words drowned beneath the rain and the scrape of the wipers against the glass. "He just didn't hear the phone or he's out or..." He fell silent, staring up at the opened curtains at the light he could clearly see. He shook his head, banishing the day dream before it could take route. There was no way Miles would just leave the light on. Not Miles, of all people.

A flash of lightning lit the sky. Thunder rumbled appreciatively in the distance.

Connor shook his head again. And there was no way that Miles would miss a storm like this.

He pushed open the car door and ran through the rain, feeling it soak through his clothes, splashing through the puddles.

The apartment complex was quiet, closed off, shut away from the storm. He started to climb the exposed steps towards Miles' apartment, wet and slippy from the anger of the storm, the wind blowing strongly now, shaking the steps, knocking more water onto him.

He ignored it. Something was wrong.

Miles' door was closed. Normal. Connor almost laughed when he saw it, hesitating in front of it, his hand raised to knock.

The door swung open as soon as his hand touched it, swinging crazily on the hinges, not quite hiding the sound of agonized raspy breathing.

"Miles!"

Miles lay in the center of the room, his face and body bruised and battered, his left hand held across his chest, tightly balled. Holding onto something like he was frightened to let it go.

"Miles!" Connor ran to him, kneeling next to him, practiced fingers probing the younger man's body.

"Dr...Connor..." Miles gasped for breath to talk, every word ripped from his body, edged in pain, dripping with blood. "They..."

"Easy, Miles, Easy. I'm just going to call for an ambulance." He fished in his pocket for his phone. "Miles, son, who did this?"

"Eva." The word so soft it was almost just a breath.

"What?"

"They...have...Eva." With an effort Miles forced his hand up, uncurling his fingers.

A watch lay in the palm of his hand, the links stained with blood.

xxxXXXxxx

He didn't like it.

He was used to working by the job, get in, get out. Not this 24/7 alert thing. But the money was good and it was constant, not just a big payoff here and there as his services were demanded. And Ginelle... well, her habit was getting more expensive. She was getting to be more and more of a liability. In his line of work... well, liabilities didn't last long.

He hoped he could dispose of her without hurting her. It depended on how stoned she was when he finally made the decision to do the deed. But a junkie's mouth was a dangerous thing. Too loose. Like they said in the Navy way back when, 'loose lips sink ships'.

All Ginelle had to do was to get too high, get out of the hotel room and start blabbing to the wrong person and attention would be brought around to him. And his business you didn't live long if the wrong kind of attention came your way.

He liked Ginelle. Liked the way she responded to him in bed, on the floor, on the couch, wherever he wanted. Liked that she was willing to do most anything when she was high, which was most of the time. But she was expendable, just like the gun holstered close to his chest or the knife slotted into the side of his boot. Pretty, supple, willing... and disposable.

Maybe she'd last a little longer. He hoped so but he wasn't going to take any chances. The minute she became a risk...

Worry about that later, he told himself as he walked through the pouring rain and stopped at the rusty mailbox in front of the dilapidated house he was using for this current drop. He never used the same drop place. That would be stupid and he wasn't stupid, far from it. The envelope was there, just like he'd known it would be. This guy was good. He gave no indication of who he was, not so much as a fingerprint on the envelope–he'd checked after the first job–and he paid what he promised, on time, no excuses.

Jack liked working for this guy, but it made him nervous too. He didn't like leaving witnesses.

If he was going to beat a man to death, it should be just that–to death.

This idea of roughing up the kid–a doctor no less, what were they doing, giving MD licenses to 12 year olds?–leaving the calling card and then letting him lie there in his own blood, still breathing... well, he didn't like that at all. It wasn't that young Dr. Miles McCabe could recognize him. The ski mask was a cliche but it did the job and there would be no line ups for McCabe, but still he was a witness and that was bad. Things went wrong when people were left alive. They noticed things. Or heard things.

Jack didn't like it. But it was working out so far.

He had the money in his hands though and he was on his way back to Ginelle. She was still good for a while, he decided. He didn't like breaking in new women.

xxxXXXxxx

"Come on Eva, answer your damn phone!"

Connor paced across the apartment, listening to the constant, incessant ringing, barely audible over the thunder outside the door he'd forgotten to shut. Dimly he could hear the paramedics, working on Miles, and he turned to watch them, leaning against the thin living room wall.

"We're sorry, the number you have dialed is not currently in service. Please replace the handset and try again. If you need..."

"Damnit!" Connor snapped the phone closed, shoving it back into his pocket. Why Miles? Why Eva? What the hell was going on?

"You ready? On my count. One...two...three."

Quickly, carefully, the paramedics lifted Miles onto the guerney. He collapsed onto it, groaning.

Connor walked forward, already pulling his coat closed. The rain was still beating against the window. "Where are you taking him to?"

"Lincoln Memorial. Do you want to ride with us, Dr. Connor?"

He almost nodded, then stopped himself. "No, I'll catch up with you there. I'll lock up here."

"Okay, Dr. Connor." The paramedics wheeled Miles away with smooth even movements.

Stephen crouched down and lifted a plain white envelope from beneath an overturned chair. He turned it over, carefully.

"DR NATALIE DURANT" was typed on it, obviously from on old, poorly maintained manual typewriter.

Still crouching, he pulled out his phone and dialed quickly.

xxxXXXxxx

This is ridiculous.

It was the third time in twenty minutes that Natalie Durant had thought the same, exact thing at herself. It didn't make it any less ridiculous to repeat it, she found. She was 38 years old, she was a professional, mature woman (getting more mature every day, she sighed inwardly).

It wasn't like this was her first date.

Her first date, though, with Larry Rigney, Attorney at Law, Princeton graduate, MENSA member, hunk extraordinaire. And her first date in about six months. Good grief, she thought, had it really been that long? Yep. She'd been squirreled away in a laboratory somewhere for so long that she had probably developed an allergy to the sunlight.

Cutting a glance at the bay window in her bedroom, she didn't guess sunlight would be a problem tonight. The skies had literally split open and were dumping two months of stored up rain on the city tonight and the forecast didn't look good for the next two days either. City officials were already setting things in motion to handle the copious amounts of rain expected.

She took one final look in the mirror and was surprisingly pleased with what she saw.

"You clean up real nicely, Nat," she said out loud then laughed just as the phone rang. "Oh, Larry, don't you dare cancel," she muttered as she slipped the receiver out of the cradle.

xxxXXXxxx

"Come on, Nessa, Daddy's going to read 'Wind in the Willows'," Tesha Powell urged her 14 year old sister as she settled onto the bed with her father seated on the edge beside her.

"That's for babies."

"Vanessa," Frank Powell cautioned.

"Well, Daddy, I'm on my way out to cheerleading practice," the girl objected, "I don't have time for baby stuff."

Raising one eyebrow, Frank asked, "Did your mother say your could go out in this weather?"

"It's just rain, Dad," Vanessa insisted, hands fisted on her hips, that worried look on her face that said she knew good and well she was about to be told she was staying home and she wasn't happy about it.

The incipient argument was stopped when Kim appeared at the bedroom door and her expression was one that even Vanessa didn't challenge.

"What is it, hon," Frank asked.

"Phone call, Frank. Connor." Her face was white.

xxxXXXxxx

She tried to figure out where they were taking her, tried to remember what turns the driver had made. It was hard to concentrate, to think, in the inky darkness of the trunk, the panels closer and closer around her.

It was getting harder and harder to breathe.

"Stop it, Eva. If he wanted you dead, he would have killed you already. He wants something from you."Her words, softly spoken, just to remind her that she was alive, echoed around the trunk, echoed and magnified, mocking her intent. "dead dead dead…..killled killed….wants wants…"

What could he want from her?

She remembered the way he had held her hand as they ran through the rain, the way he had held her in the storm, the way she had trembled in his embrace. She shivered again, freezing in her damp clothes, in the tight, enclosed, dark trunk. She knew what he could want from her.

It occurred to her, suddenly, that the car had stopped.

"Stupid, stupid. You got to pay attention, you got to…"

The trunk was opened and she turned her head away, staring up into the sudden welcoming fresh air. Lightning streaked overhead, thunder rumbling soon after, and despite herself, she flinched at the violence.

Hands reached in and dragged her out of the trunk, digging into her skin. She stumbled as she tried to stand, her legs weak and uncooperative. Hands reached out to steady her, and she jerked away from them, out of their reach, trying to get away, trying to run. She had to find a phone, had to call…

A hand flashed through the night, colliding with the side of her face.

Fingers wrapped in her dark hair, then pull hard, jerking her head up. She had to blink away tears of pain to focus on the face above her. HIS face.

"I don't want to hurt you, Eva. But I will, if you don't co-operate. You are going to  
co-operate aren't you?" He ran his other hand down her cheek, feeling her tremble beneath his touch. "It would be a shame to hurt such a beautiful thing."  
She nodded. She didn't want him to hurt her.

"Good." He released her hair and stood up. "Put her in the closet."

The closet? Oh please, God, no, not…

Thunder rumbled overhead, mocking her fears with its laughter


	3. Another Day's Work, Part Three

xxxXXXxxx

"He's still in surgery," Connor said simply. "She's still missing."

Natalie didn't bother trying to go for the 'brave face'. She went straight to a chair in the small, private waiting room and dropped down into it, her eyes bright in her pallid face.

"How bad is it?" Frank saved her asking the question.

"So far, from what I've been told, he has a ruptured spleen, broken ribs, punctured lung, internal bleeding and a concussion. It's probably going to be another hour or so before they're finished with him."

"Did he say anything?" Natalie finally asked, "Was he able to talk to you, Stephen?"

Connor seemed to notice her condition for the first time and stooped down beside the chair, took her hand in his, surprised by how cold it was, how small.

"He said Eva's name, Nat, that was about it. He wasn't conscious much longer than that."

"Is he going to be all right?"

"I honestly don't know."

"He's young and strong, Natalie," Frank put in, feeling useless even as he said the words, knowing it was in bigger hands than his own. "He'll make it."

"'Make it?'" she parroted. "It's that bad?"

Connor squeezed her hand gently, repeated Frank's words, "He'll make it, Nat. I promise."

"What about Eva?"

Connor sighed, steeled himself, then pulled the envelope out of his pocket, turning it over in his hands. "I haven't turned this in to the police. I can't decide whether I should or not."

Frank reached out, took the envelope, opened it, read it, then slowly, very slowly gave it to Natalie.

Plain typeface. Old manual typewriter, obviously, not in good shape, the letters blobbed up from old ink.

"Call the cops and she will die.

Call the feds and she will die.

Mess with me in any way and she will die.

Deliver the product as I have instructed and you just might get her back.

The formula is enclosed. Dr. Natalie Durant is to prepare it."

xxxXXXxxx

"We shouldn't be doing this."

"I know."

"I mean, kidnapping is a federal offense. He should report it to the proper authorities. This could cost us our badges, Claire."

"I know. You don't have to do this, Joey. I can handle it on my own."

Joe Kerrigan sighed. "How many times have I asked you not to call me Joey?"

She smiled suddenly, her cheeks dimpling. "Nearly every time I do."

He sighed and shook his head. "What did he tell you on the phone?"

"Not much. Just that she was missing and his friend had been assaulted."

"Not much to go on." Joe checked his watch. "It's only been a few hours. Any  
chance that he's just jumping the gun, and she's got lucky and switched her phone  
off?"

Claire glanced at him out of the corner of her eye as she drove, raising her eyebrow.

Joe shrugged. "Just wanted to make sure." He looked out of the window. "I don't  
like this Claire. This… something's wrong with this. It doesn't sit right. I don't  
like it"

"Neither do I, Joe." Claire pulled into the car park at Lincoln Memorial. "Neither do  
I."

xxxXXXxxx

"Dr. Connor, he's not in any condition for visitors." The young doctor stared him right in the eye. "Nor is he in any shape for an inquisition."

This kid had some nerve and that was when Stephen realized that was one of the things that bothered him about Dr. VanWingen. He looked almost as young as Miles, and he wasn't backing down from him any more than Miles would. He huffed out air, put his hands on his hips and tried again.

"Doctor, I realize that you're taking care of your patient and I admire that. As you may or may not know, I'm a physician myself." He nodded toward Nat. "As is Dr. Durant. However, Miles is not just our colleague, he's our friend. I can assure you that neither of would do anything, anything at all, to exacerbate his condition. We need to talk to him. Just for a minute. If he shows any signs of distress, I give you my word, we will leave the room."

VanWingen glanced over at Natalie, then back to Connor, some of his frustration gone, did his own sigh, then said, "Five minutes. Tops. He's in serious condition, Doctor. I won't have him upset."

"Understood," Stephen assured him quickly.

Frank was left to stew in his own imagination and pace the small confines of the private waiting room.

Natalie would have been prepared if it had been any other patient than Miles, one of her own, Miles who had wiggled his way into her heart right from the first even when he'd been nothing more than an irritant to Stephen. She had to remember to draw breath after the first sight.

His eyes were closed, both lids transparent purple, black bruising spreading down nearly one entire side of his face. A tube ran into his nose, an oxygen cannula in place as well. His lips were cracked and split, a sliver of dried blood running down the side of his mouth, missed in the clean up, or new since then. A line of stitches ran across his right cheekbone. Tubes that she knew the purposes for ran out from beneath the covers like extensions of his body, IVs in both arms. There was so much monitoring equipment that it was difficult to find an unoccupied space beside the bed. His breathing was shallow, careful, even in his drugged half slumber as if his body knew very well that any movement would wake up nerve endings better left sleeping.

She didn't want to wake him, cause him pain. She would have been content to simply sit there and watch him sleep, drugged into painlessness.

Connor, of course, had another agenda, as well he should.

He stepped up to the head of the bed and laid his hand gently on Miles' right shoulder, just enough pressure to register, not enough to cause discomfort. He hoped.

Purple eyelids fluttered, tried to open, failed.

"Miles," he said softly.

Nothing.

"Miles." More force now. More like his 'you're not doing enough' voice that he only used when things were desperate and he had hit his frustration peak.

The eyelids succumbed to the effort this time and bloodshot eyes tried to track him. "Ste-en," came out of a dry throat. Then he blinked, the eyes cleared a little of the drugginess and he tried again, "Eva. Help her."

"That's what we're trying to do, Miles," Stephen assured him, his eyes going instantly to the monitors that registered the distress. "Try to calm down. You have to stay calm or they're going to throw us out and you won't be able to help." It was a dirty trick, but he had to keep the kid calm or that was literally what would happen. VanWingen was standing not ten feet away from them at the foot of the bed, his grey eyes pinned on his patient, watching for any reason to end the session.

Miles nodded his head, then winced as it pulled on the stitches in his cheek, woke the headache that had been lying just behind his eyes.

"Eva," he repeated, his voice nothing more than a hoarse whisper, "someone has... Eva."

"I know, we have to know what you saw, if you recognized anything about the people who did this to you."

"One..." Miles started to shake his head, caught himself before the gesture could set off more nerve endings. "One man."

"Did you recognize him?"

"No."

"Anything, Miles. Anything that could help?"

"I-I-I can't–"

"Stephen," Natalie's soft voice interrupted and Miles' bloodshot eyes veered over to her. She took his hand, careful of the IV in the back of it, gently rubbing her fingers over his palm.

"I'm sorry," Miles whispered.

"No, you have nothing to be sorry for. I just want you to try to think. Do you remember anything at all about him. I know you're tired, Miles. Just anything you can remember."

Her hand was warm around his fingers and he tried to pull in the tattered edges of his memory. "Ski mask. B-blue eyes." He hesitated, pain shrouding everything before this very moment. "Accent," he said finally. "Boston. He sounded like the city of Boston. I went-went there once. Boston..." His voice trailed off, eyelids lost the fight with wakefulness, and his breathing evened out as the pain vanished into sleep.


	4. Another Day's Work, Part Four

The phone call was made.

There was no unringing the bell as the old proverb went. Frank wasn't looking forward to running headfirst into Connor's reaction when he came out to find that he'd called in the cops in spite of what the note said. Although, Claire and Joe weren't exactly 'the cops'. Not in this situation anyway.

The fact that they were coming at all meant that they had accepted the 'no cops' stipulation in the note, that they were coming as friends rather than as legal reps. There would be no grilling a barely responsive Miles or bugged phone lines or badly hidden police at the drop point. Not with Joe and Claire. He could trust them. Whether he could convince Connor of that or not remained to be seen.

With any luck Natalie and Stephen would come back out of recovery before they arrived and he'd have time to explain...

No such luck. Par for the course.

It had been two years since he'd seen either of them but then adults don't change appearance that much in that length of time unless it's intentional, and neither of them had. Claire, her curly hair piled on her head, pulled back too severely from her angular face, dressed as always impeccably. Joe in blue jeans, the same black leather jacket, half a week's worth of stubble on his face. He'd once told Frank it made him look older. That was debatable.

She put her arms around him and he leaned against her, grateful, just for that second to have someone to lean against.

"You okay, Frank?"

"Yeah." He forced himself to stand, scrubbing the heels of his hand against his eyes. "How you doing, Joe?"

"I'm good, Frank, thanks."

Joe shifted...uncomfortable. He'd never liked hospitals, never liked the smell, the taste of them. He nodded at the closed door of the room. "How's the kid doing, anyway?"

Frank glanced over his shoulder. "Not good. Bastard did a real number on him."

And he had Eva.

He swallowed hard, reached inside his coat. "He left this for Connor to find at Miles' apartment." He handed the envelope over to Claire, rubbing his fingers against the raised type.

Wondering if his friends, if his trust, had just gotten Eva killed.

xxxXXXxxx

Natalie managed to hold it in until Miles fell into a restless sleep, but the minute his eyes closed and his breathing evened out, her tears started. Shared pain for Miles, fear for Eva.

The instant her shoulders rounded and her breathing caught, she felt an arm around her pulling her close and she turned into Connor's embrace, being held as she let the tears come.

"Why? Stephen, why?" she murmured into his shoulder. "Miles never hurt anyone in his life. Who would cause him such pain?" She was afraid to even mention Eva yet, as if the mere sound of her name would make it all real. Eva should be there with them, worrying right beside her, helping find out what had happened, but there was this huge gaping hole where she should be and Natalie was afraid to even reach out and touch the edges of that hole yet.

"Let's get out of here, Nat," Connor said, still nestling her against him. "We don't want him waking up again, he needs the sleep. He'll be okay, I promise."

The look he shot at VanWingen said that he'd better be okay, but the young doctor merely met his eyes without flinching and said, "We're doing our best, Dr. Connor."

His arm still around Natalie, Stephen didn't notice the two people standing with Frank for the first two seconds after they stepped outside the room.

The door closed and Frank turned, quickly, stepping towards the room. "How is he?"

"Sleeping." Connor looked at Claire and Joe, fixing them with pale, intense eyes. "Who are they?"

"Old friends of mine." Frank reached out his hand, drawing the others closer. "Claire Maryland, Joe Kerrigan, this is Stephen Connor and Natalie Durant."

Connor didn't even bother with the pleasantries. "The note said no cops, Frank."

"We're here unofficially, Dr. Connor."

"Then she just might become unofficially dead, Ms. Maryland," Connor bit out, instinctively drawing Natalie closer. "Frank, what the hell were you thinking?"

"No, Stephen," Natalie managed to pull in enough air to protest. "If Frank called them, then we can trust them."

As if suddenly remembering that he had her sheltered under his arm, Connor eased her over to a chair and helped to a seat. She wiped her eyes, visibly pulling herself together, then brought too bright eyes up to the man and woman. "Eva's life could depend on our doing what they want," she said, "but what they want is impossible. There's no way I can do it. Not under any circumstances. If you have any way to save her..."

Joe crouched in front of her, speaking softly, keeping eye contact with her. "No way you could do what, Dr Durant?"

"They want me to…" Her voice broke, and she coughed, tears trickling down her cheeks, through her once perfect make up. She gestured at the note, her hand shaking. She couldn't do it?

How could they ask her to do that?

Miles….Eva….She rubbed at her eyes, smearing her make up a little more

He glanced over his shoulder, at Claire, reading through the typed note, biting at her lip. She looked up at him and shook her head. "It's a formula."

"A formula for what?"

"A weaponised virus." Dr Durant shook her head violently, her hair flying loose around her face. "I won't do it! I can't! Eva wouldn't…"

"How long would it take you to duplicate the formula?"

"Two, maybe three, days." Her voice, her eyes were dull now, raw, stained with weeping and tiredness.

That meant Eva would be in HIS hands for two or three more days. At least. If they didn't kill her.

Oh damn, what would they do to her?

"So we have two or three days." Claire tried a tentative smile. "Joe and I will go to your friend's house and have a look around, okay, see if anybody has been paying her place too much attention." She nodded at the closed door. "How is he?"

"Bad." Connor coughed, trying to banish the image of Miles, stretched out on the hospital bed. "He's been badly beaten. Punctured lungs, broken ribs, internal bleeding, ruptured spleen and concussion. He got a real job done on him." He clenched his fists. He'd like to collar that bastard, spend some time in a room with him, just the two of them.

Joe stood, scratching at his beard. "How many?"

"Just one."

Claire reached into her pocket, pulling out her notebook. "Was he able to give you a description?"

Connor laughed bitterly, humorlessly. "He's barely conscious, Ms. Maryland. He wasn't exactly in a fit state to tell us anything! He'd just had the shit beaten out of him!"

"He did say one thing." Natalie wiped her eyes. She had herself under control now, or at least able to pretend she had. "He said the man had a Boston accent."

"Okay." Claire wrote the details down in her notebook and tucked her notebook back inside her coat. "We'll take a look into that as well."

"We'll be in touch." Joe stood up, pulling his coat tightly around him. "You got the note?"

"Yeah."

Their words sank slowly through the haze of exhaustion and worry.

"What?" Connor stood up, jerked upright by invisible strings, as they turned to leave. "Why do you need the note?"

"In case we get lucky, Dr. Connor. It's the only thing we have to work with. He might have left fingerprints and we might be able to get something off it."

"No." Connor shook his head. "No. He said we couldn't involve you guys. I know you're friends of Frank's and I know he trusts you, but I won't take any chances with Eva's life."

"Neither will we, Dr. Connor." Claire brushed a strand of curly hair that had escaped its binding away from her forehead. "But her chances are better if we find her quickly, and this note is our best chance of doing that."

"No…"

"Stephen…" Frank stepped in between his two oldest friends. "Let them do their job."

Connor stared at them for another minute, and reluctantly nodded. He turned away from them, walking to the window, staring out at the storm, at the rain still beating against the window.

What a fucking night.

The formula was dancing around in Natalie's head, mocking her in the impossibility of it being any help to them. So simple to concoct what the damned terrorist wanted from them. So impossible to even consider it as a possibility.

Miles' battered young face taunted her, bloodshot eyes pleading with her to help him, help Eva. She could do neither. He wasn't her patient. Rightfully so. She was too involved, cared too much. And Eva was lost somewhere, way out of reach, in danger, probably terrified. The one time she wouldn't be able to talk her way out of something and the one time her life depended on it.

Not taking it to the police... was it a huge mistake? Or the only way to keep Eva alive?

That meant no police protection for Miles, what if they came back for him? She and Stephen and Frank could hardly be there every minute and even if they could, these were professionals. Stephen or Frank might have a chance but it would be ludicrous for Natalie to try to "protect" anyone, much less a helpless boy in a hospital bed. She remembered the first day she'd met him. She knew with one look that Stephen was going to eat him alive, that impossibly young face, all that idealism and enthusiasm. But Miles had stuck it out, wormed his way into all their hearts, become a valued member of the team.

His chances were only 50/50 according to VanWingen.

What were Eva's chances?

Their voices finally soaked through her thoughts and she looked up at them with reddened eyes in an exhausted face.

"Find her," she said softly. "Find her, and, please, God, help us keep Miles safe."

xxxXXXxxx


	5. Another Day's Work, Part Five

How long had she been in here?

The walls of the closet closed in around her.

She glanced at her wrist, looking for her watch. But there was only a bruise on her pale skin, where his large hand had pulled the watch off, just before he had forced her into the trunk.

Not that she could have seen the time anyway.

The darkness was thick, oppressive, a living entity stalking her, pressing her back against the walls of the closet.

How long had she been in here?

xxxXXXxxx

There was no way. Simply no way.

Natalie crossed her arms on the table and laid her head down, too exhausted to cry. Too discouraged to even care that she had no tears, no ideas. She needed sleep. Food. Someone to tell her that it was all a nightmare, a bad dream, that she would lift her heavy head off her arms and it would all be gone, just a memory of night terrors.

Eva would be busy doing her Eva things, smoothing the way for them on a new assignment, calling in her political markers to get them what they needed, when they needed it. Miles would be slumped over his text books, working too hard, letting his youth slip by at the call of his dedication.

Instead, she was here, in the lab, finding out what she had known all along.

There was no way to slip this bastard a fake mix using his formula, not and pass any simple reaction test he could do right on the spot and get Eva very, very dead. Not that he would be stupid enough to come get it himself.

And there was no way to make the formula the way it was written without turning a biochemical terror weapon loose in the hands of a man who would kidnap an innocent woman and beat a young doctor almost to death. She was still worried about Miles' chances. It was touch and go. She'd hated leaving the hospital but she had to try to figure out a way to make the formula without making it..

"What are you doing?"

She startled, shocked to realize that she had almost fallen asleep. "Stephen." She rubbed at her eyes, then sat up straight. "Have you heard anything? Oh no, is Miles–"

He raised a hand. "Miles is... the same. No change. What are you doing here, Natalie? It's three o'clock in the morning."

"Trying to find a way to make this stuff without making it," she answered.

He cocked his head. "If he couldn't make it himself, then he doesn't know what it is other than that he has the formula, yes?"

She nodded.

"Why can't you just make up a batch of... I don't know, kool aid?"

All he has to do is run a reaction on it, Stephen," she said, weary beyond words, fighting to control her irritation. She knew he was just as tired and discouraged as she was. "He's not an idiot and we can't treat him like he is. Eva's life depends on it. It can be something as simple as dropping an aspirin in the mix and it won't react properly, he'll know. He's no idiot. Or at least we can't bank on the off chance that he might be an idiot. Eva's life depends on it."

"I know, Nat. I was just hoping there might be an easy answer for once. I'm as worried as you are."

"Eva's terrified of the dark, Stephen. It's dark and it's storming and she's alone."

The chirp of his cell interrupted whatever he'd being about to say and she watched his face as he listened, then spoke. "I'll be right there." He flipped the phone shut, said, "I'll be back, Natalie."

"Stephen, what is it?"

"I need to go back to the hospital, Nat, you try to get some rest, okay?"

"Stephen–"

He gave a sigh. "Come on."

"Where?"

"The hospital."

xxxXXXxxx

The door knob turned easily in his hand and they walked into her apartment.

"No sign of a struggle, anyway." Joe opened her mailbox and rummaged through it, lifting her mail. "Doesn't look like she's been home for a few days, either." He set the mail down on the hall table and followed Claire into the apartment, scratching at his beard.

Claire flicked the light on, bathing the dark apartment in sudden bright light.

"Nice place."

The apartment was spacious, Spartan, yet elegantly and expensively furnished, the walls and surfaces mostly bare of pictures and ornaments. A house, not a home.

"Yeah." Claire glanced around the living room. "You finish up in here. I'll have a look in her bedroom."

"Okay." Joe walked over to the phone, pressing the 'play' button on the machine. He lifted the photo next to it, of Eva, standing alone, in a formal, dress, smiling, beautifully, sadly.

The mechanical squawk of the answering machine interrupted his thoughts.

"You have no messages."

"Great." He raised his voice, still clutching the photograph. "Nobody's looking for her yet, not her mom, not her boyfriend." He glanced at the few photographs she had, at the one he still held in his hand.

She was alone in all of them, clinging to her isolation like a shield.

"She likes her space." He heard Claire opening doors light from the bathroom spilling across the floor. "She's got a wardrobe in here I could get my kids' rooms in, but not many clothes. No photos, no sign of a boyfriend." She switched the lights off and walked out into the living room.

"I did find this though." She threw the small box to him and he caught it in his off hand, careful not to let the photograph drop.

"Dino's Bar and Grill." He raised his eyebrows. "Classy place."

"We should talk to the bartender."

He lifted the photo. "Can't quite see our girl there, though."

"Maybe she went slumming. Lonely girl," Claire commented thoughtfully.

"Shame."

Claire's cellphone rang loudly and she shook her head, digging in her pockets. "Maryland. Oh, hi sweetheart." Joe grinned as she turned away from him. "No, I'm still on duty, just checking a lead out. I'll be home soon."

His grin slipped away as he listened to her talk, staring at the beautiful, lonely girl in the  
photograph. He glanced up at Claire, still talking to her husband.  
He slipped the photo inside his jacket pocket.

xxxXXXxxx

"Where are you going now?"

"Shut the hell up, Ginelle. I told you, it's work."

"You promised to take me to the casino. You never take me anywhere anymore. What good is this money if we never get to spend any of it."

"Look in the mirror, you stupid slut, you're wearing twenty grand of jewelry now and you ain't even got any clothes on."

"I'd put clothes on if you'd take me any damn where!"

"Look, Ginelle, I've got business. You want your pretties, your baubles, then you let me go do my business, you hear? The money don't get deposited unless I do what I"m told. This one's bad. The man don't like second chances or do overs. I got to do this right this time and I don't need you on my back throwing my game off."

"I might not be here when you get back, you know. I might just go out on the town by myself. Have myself some fun without you."

"You go right ahead. Just don't bother to come back here. You got that?"

Those were the last words Jack ever said to Ginelle. She would remember every one of them.

xxxXXXxxx

She huddled in the back of the closet, head bowed, arms wrapped around herself, shivering.

Making herself as small as she could.

Maybe if she was as small as a mouse, as still as a mouse, then he wouldn't notice her, and he wouldn't get angry with her. Wouldn't hurt her.

And he would hurt her, if he was angry with her. She had read the promise of that in his eyes.

She wouldn't make him angry.

She knew what it was like when someone like him was angry.

xxxXXXxxx

He had the groggy feeling that something should hurt. Maybe everything should hurt. But there was a barrier between his body and his mind. It took him a long, long time to realize that the barrier was the drugs flowing into his veins.

It was a longer time still before he remembered how to move his fingers and open his eyes. White ceiling. All he could see was a blurry visual of a white ceiling. If he turned his head, he might see more, but that seemed like such an effort...

Voices. He remembered voices. Natalie. Frank. Stephen. But there were no voices now, only the shush shush of one of the machines close to his head. Pain. He remembered pain. Pain so bad that it eclipsed the fear. Blue eyes in a black mask. Like a demented racoon. A voice with the taste of Boston in it. Eva. Something about Eva...

He had to tell them something about Eva...

The blue eyes... he could see them now. They were imprinted on his memory so he didn't mistake them when he saw them again and they were so close he could see the irises widen in surprise when he opened his eyes. A hand clapped over his mouth as he pulled in breath to scream and panic jolted through his abused body, short-circuiting the pain meds.

"Hush, Miles," the man said, and his voice was almost kind, "don't make this hurt any worse than it has to. It'll be over in just a second, no more pain, see, I'm doing you a favor, kid."

He saw the knife, small, a glint of light caroming off the razored edge and he bit down hard on the hand covering his mouth, so hard that he tasted the bitter tang of blood.

"Damn!" Jack squealed and jerked his hand away from the kid's mouth, a ragged wound torn into the palm, blood drooling down his wrist, dripping onto the sheets. Furious, he backhanded Miles, spraying more blood across the wall.

Miles shut his eyes, numb, stunned after the single blow, breathing hard, and simply waiting for the killing strike.

It didn't come.

"What the hell do you think you're doing in here!"

Startled into opening his eyes again, Miles saw his assailant jerked backward away from the bed, a figure in white, then a scuffle that he more heard than saw, the sound of flesh hitting flesh and a woman screaming. It was bedlam after that and he lay there, panting, not knowing if he was going to live through the next minute or not.


	6. Another Day's Work, Part Six

Since the laboratory that Natalie had commandeered was right there in the hospital, it took only minutes for her and Stephen to make it to Miles' room. What they found there was a mess.

Dr. David VanWingen was sitting on a stool just inside Miles' room getting a nice row of fifteen stitches in his scalp, insisting to the intern doing the needlework that he was 'not leaving his patient until he found out what the hell was going on'. Two uniforms were milling around uncomfortably under the glare of an obvious plainclothes detective who had the scowl of a drill sergeant and the voice of a T-Rex.

"Out!" The T-Rex said, finger pointing dramatically at the doorway Connor and Natalie had just entered through. He was mid-fifties, crew cut salt and pepper hair, bulldog face and evidently temperament to match and obviously in no mood to brook an argument.

"I'm his physician," Connor fudged and stalked right past the detective to where Miles lay pallid and unmoving on the bed. Natalie followed at his heels in spite of the "And then who is she?"

"She's his physician too," Connor said as he watched Nat gently lift one of Miles' eyelids, then lay her hand against his ashen cheek.

The detective turned his glower onto VanWingen and said, "And you're his physician too. Sure does seem in bad shape for having half the hospital as his attendings, wouldn't you say?"

Connor ignored the snipe. "What happened?"

VanWingen looked up at him as well as he could with someone doing needlepoint on his forehead. "That's exactly what I'd like to ask you, Dr. Connor. Why weren't there any police the first time Dr. McCabe was attacked?"

"Doctor McCabe?" the detective mimicked. "What is this, a convention? And, thank you, Dr. VanWingen, but why don't you let me ask the questions here?"

Connor turned cold eyes onto him. "And you are…?"

"Relling," came the reply from the stocky detective as he pulled a fairly ragged business card from somewhere inside his trenchcoat. "Detective Mark Relling, though I figure you'd already guessed the detective part. Now, I was so gracious as to introduce myself, how about returning the favor and explaining… one: why this kid has so many doctors, and two: why no one bothered to call the cops the first time he was assaulted?"

xxxXXXxxx

Before anyone could answer Relling, the convention suddenly nearly doubled in size which did not please Dr. VanWingen in the least. Claire and Joe arrived with Frank in tow.

Connor opened his mouth to answer Relling, but his attempted reply was cut off.  
"Is he okay?" Frank could barely speak, his face grey, casting anxious glances at Mile's sleeping form.

"Who the hell are you?" Relling turned to face the newcomers, hands planted on his wide hips. "What the hell are you doing here?"

Connor ignored the stocky detective. "Dr. VanWingen caught somebody in his room with a knife, trying to cut his throat." Bastard. Twice he'd gotten close enough to Miles to hurt him. He wouldn't get a third chance. "Son of a bitch clocked the doctor on the way out."

"That doesn't explain what Detective Maryland and Detective Kerrigan are doing here," Relling demanded with a nasty edge to his tone. "Or are you just hand holding for our friends?"

"It's our case, Mark, so what the hell are you doing here?"

"Your case?"

"Yeah." Claire hastily followed Joe's lead. "We caught the initial assault, we've been following up on some leads."

"So you don't need us here? Is that what you're saying? And you have jurisdiction in this precinct?" Relling's disappointment was almost palatable, another big case slipping  
through his clumsy fingers, but he wasn't quite sure what was going on or how far to push it. For all he knew, politics were at work here.

"No, you guys can clear out. We'll handle it from here." Claire waited until the uniforms had left,closing the door after them. "I need to talk to Dr. VanWingen. In private."

Joe nodded. "I'll go see if I can get the surveillance tapes. If Reilling hasn't gotten his fat  
hands all over them already."

Connor started to shake his head. "Detectives..."

Claire took a step closer to him, lowering her voice. "I know you don't want the police involved, Dr. Connor, but this is different. If this is the same guy, we might be able to trace him. It might help us to find your friend. This is an attempted homicide, and that's what we'll be investigating."

He opened his mouth to argue. And then thought of Eva, alone, in the dark and frightened. He had to find her, had to let them find her. "Okay."

Claire looked at the still form lying on the bed. "We're going to have to talk to Dr. McCabe as well."

"No, not yet, please," Natalie begged, seeing the pain and agony sketched in every line of Miles' restlessly sleeping body. "Give him a chance to rest."

"Okay, I'll speak to Dr. VanWingen first. Is there someplace private we can talk, Doctor?"

"The lounge." Dr VanWingen stood, unsteady on his feet, groggy. "It's this way."  
"Thanks, Doctor. Joey?"

"I'll go talk to the hospital security." Joe walked off, scratching at his beard, feeling the photo inside his pocket brush against his heart.

She was all alone. All alone and frightened.

'Please Eva. Be brave. Give me a chance to find you.'

xxxXXXxxx

"Please..."

Her voice cracked on the word, swallowed by the darkness around her, before it had even passed her lips. Almost inaudible, fragile and fluttering, tapped in the closet with her.

She didn't dare speak any louder.

Still as a mouse, quiet as a mouse.

She didn't want to make him angry.

"Please, let me out of here."

She rested her head against the door of the closet, her hair falling loose around her face. She could still feel his fingers, his touch, gentle against her face.

Could still feel his anger, harsh and cold.

"Please. I'll be good. I promise."

xxxXXXxxx

"What the hell's wrong with you?" Ginelle demanded, sliding across the hotel room bed, still clad in the silver blue teddy that she had thought would be irresistible to Jack when he'd returned from wherever the hell he went. She figured he was dealing. That would explain why he either had a wad of money or none. Dealing was like that. He didn't use though. She'd never seen him use.

He might drink occasionally but nothing like he was doing now, belting shots back one after the other and totally ignoring her in spite of her being in seductress mode. He said booze threw him off, made him careless. Yeah, she figured he was dealing, but it didn't matter as long he was bringing the money home and spending big chunks of it on her.

She'd been getting nervous lately though. He didn't seem like his usual self, he wasn't pawing her as much lately. He'd go to bed and roll over onto his side away from her and sleep. It was like being in bed alone some nights. When he did roll back over to her, it felt like sex, not love. She wasn't sure he'd ever loved her, but she had always hoped so. A junkie needed a supplier who wanted to supply for some reason and love was as good a reason as any. She didn't want to go back out on the street again. It was cold and dangerous out there. So she wanted to keep Jack happy and he hadn't seemed happy the last few weeks.

"C'mon, baby," she cajoled, trying to pull him back onto the bed with her, "look at me. I got all pretty for you. For no one but you."

"Leave me alone, Ginelle," he snarled and popped back another shot. His eyes were getting glassy now and his movements slow and clumsy.

She sat back on the bed, curled herself up with her legs crossed and her arms hugging herself, a little scared now. She knew there was a well of violence in him. He didn't hit her often, but he'd been known to pop her one and she was careful how far she pushed him. But this was different. This was deeper, darker and she was afraid, somehow permanent.

Finally, he screwed the top on the bottle and got to his feet, stuck the gun in the back of his belt and pulled a jacket on, then his raincoat. It was still pouring and snarling up a storm outside.

"I'll be back," he said.

There was a finality to the words and that scared her. She was terrified of being alone. She was right to be afraid.

She never saw him again.


	7. Another Day's Work, Part Seven

He walked into the Doctor's Lounge and collapsed wearily on the seat, holding an ice pack against the wound on his head. He waved a hand at the seat opposite him. "Sit down, Detective Maryland."

She sat down opposite him, flipping through her notebook. "Did you get a look at Dr. McCabe's assailant? Can you describe him for me please?"

"Tall, well built." VanWingen sighed heavily, closing his eyes. "Really short haircut." He waved his free hand above his head. "Military style. Blue eyes." He opened his eyes, massaging the already forming bruise on his temple. "And a hell of a right hook."

"Did you notice anything else about him?"

VanWingen frowned, the pale lines of his forehead in contrast to the large, ugly bruise already forming. "He moved like he knew what he was doing." He flinched. "Hit like it, too."

"Did he say anything, did you hear an accent?"

He hesitated, thinking back. "I'm sorry, Detective Maryland, I didn't."

"Would you recognize him if you saw him again?"

He shook his head slowly, careful not to move it too far. "I don't think so. I only got a brief look at him. I was more worried about my patient."

Claire nodded, closed her notebook and stood up. "Thank you, Dr VanWingen." She hesitated for a second. "My partner and I are going to need to talk to Dr. McCabe."

"Of course. He's still very weak, though. I don't know what help he can be to you." VanWingen stood, swaying a little on his feet. "Do you mind telling me what all this is about, Detective?"

Claire shook her head, a strand of curly hair falling loose across her forehead. "I'm sorry, Dr. VanWingen. I can't comment on an ongoing investigation."

There was too much at stake.

xxxXXXxxx

"Please…"

Natalie jerked awake, then moaned at the sudden, painful movement as she uncurled out of her pretzeled position in the uncomfortable chair. She must have been dreaming. She rubbed at swollen eyes and started to wrestle her body back into the chair when she heard it again…

"Please…"

Jolting up out of the chair, she took the three steps to the bed and placed a hand gently against a fever warmed cheek. "Shh," she said, "Shhh, it's okay, you're okay, you're safe here with me, Miles."

He forced his eyes open, fought through the blur that marred his vision, then found her face. He reached out with a trembling hand and Natalie caught it quickly in both of hers, enfolding the cold fingers into the warmth of her palms.

"Eva?" he whispered.

"She's still missing, Miles," she said softly, wishing she had any answer other than that.

His eyes teared and one slipped free, slid down the side of his face. She gently brushed it away.

"Have—to—find her, Nat." The words were mere breaths of air.

"I know, honey, they're doing everything they can. You have to rest now. Eva would want you to try to get better. You know that."

"But she's—alone—Nat, she—must—be scared."

There was no answer to that. "Miles, I'm so sorry, but I have to call the detectives in here. They have to ask you some questions. Is that all right?"

His eyes shuttered closed then open again, and he tried to smile reassuringly at her but managed only a shift of his lips.

"S'okay," he murmured and she kissed his hand, then got up to go to the door. Before she had made it even that far, her mind had roiled its way through all the ramifications of the next few minutes. What if he knew something, remembered something? What if he remembered nothing? What if she did what the kidnappers demanded? How could she even consider such a thing? The weapon they wanted her to construct—and time was running down, she had only hours before it was supposed to be ready for contact—had the capacity to kill hundreds, maybe even spread further than that. It was unconscionable to even consider it.

And then she saw Eva's face in her mind and she had to stop in mid-step, force herself into control before she could open the door. It took her a minute, a full minute before she could step out of the room and quietly inform the two detectives that Miles was awake and could talk to them.

"Detectives? He's awake."

Claire and Joe had started to follow Natalie into the room, when she felt VanWingen's hand on her arm. "He's very weak, Detective Maryland. Go easy on him. I won't have him put under unnecessary pressure. Do you understand me?"

Claire nodded and he released her arm, following them into Miles' room.

The kid looked a mess.

Natalie sat down next to his battered body, taking his hand in both of hers again. "Miles? Miles, these detectives need to talk to you." Slowly, painfully he nodded.

"Dr. McCabe, I'm Detective Maryland. Can you tell me what happened?"

He took so long to answer, so long for his bruised body to summon the strength.

"Dr. McCabe?" Forgetting himself, Joey reached out a hand, intending to shake Miles awake.

"Easy, Joey." Claire put her hand across his chest, casting an anxious glance at Dr. VanWingen, hovering at the door of the room. "Give him time."

His eyelids fluttered open, focusing weakly on them. "He said... I... was a... message. That... killingme... a favor..." His eyes started to close again.

"Was it the same man?" Joe's voice rose a little in his urgency and he stepped closer to the bed. "Dr. McCabe, we need to know if it was the same man."

Too weak to speak, Miles nodded, his eyelids drooping.

"That's enough Detectives." Dr. VanWingen's tone brooked no argument. "My patient needs to rest."

"Okay."

They had turned to leave when Joe felt cold fingers grip his with unexpected strength.

He looked down into Miles McCabe's surprisingly bright eyes.

Miles could only mouth the words, but Joe Kerrigan heard them clearly enough.

"Find Eva."

"We will, kid. I promise."

A blast of light briefly illuminated the room, a smack of sound against the glass and Miles painfully turned his head toward the window. Someone had forgotten to pull the drapes across it and he could see the fury of the storm beating against the glass. How long ago had it been when he'd been enjoying the storm, comforted by the strum of rain against his own window? How long ago had the crash and clang of thunder and lightning been a pleasure, something he could sit back and listen to as if it was a concert from the sky?

Now all he could think was that it was black, and the skies torn, a cacophony of sound and fury.

And Eva was alone in it.

xxxXXXxxx

"Please." She was crying now, her tears falling unnoticed in the dark closet. By this point, she didn't even know if there was anybody out there. Time in the darkness was elusive. "Please. I swear I'll be good."

Thunder rumbled, the sound growing louder, the storm drawing closer. She closed her eyes, shaking. She hated the sound of thunder more than anything. It sounded too much like the slap of a leather belt into an open palm.

She had to be quiet, had to be still.

When it finally came, the voice outside the door came as much a shock as a clap of thunder.

"If I let you out, are you going to cause any problems?"

"No! No I swear! I won't! I'll.." Her voice broke, suddenly a frightened child's. "I won't make you angry."

"Good."

She heard him release the locks and the closet door swung open. "I will put you back in  
there, if you cause me any problems." He put two fingers underneath her chin, tilting her head back so he could look into her eyes. "But you aren't going to cause me any problems, are you?"

Mute, afraid even to answer, she shook her head, her eyes wide, sparkling with unshed tears, transfixed on him.

He smiled again, a harsh predatory smile.

The sort of smile that a rabbit sees, just as the wolf closes in.

"Are you hungry, Eva?"

She nodded slowly. As quiet as a mouse, as still as a mouse.

Don't make him angry.

xxxXXXxxx

"Is it done, Jack?"

The other man, Jack, hesitated, lifting more of the take away food towards his mouth. The smell tantalized her, taunted her and she felt her stomach grumble, hoped, prayed it was silent, wouldn't give him the satisfaction of hearing her need. "Sort of."

He hadn't touched the food yet, waiting for the answer to his question. "What do you mean, sort of?"

"Well, McCabe's doctor arrived before I..."

"McCabe? Miles McCabe? What have you done to him, you--" And fear stilled the word in her throat.

He looked over at her, his eyes hard and flat, glittering with anger, pinning her in place. She fell silent, looking down at her plate of untouched food. Her only way to rebel, to not eat. And she was paying for it in her body's craving.

Why Miles?

What had he done to Miles?

Oh God, what would he do to her?

"Is it done?" He leaned back in his chair, toying with a slim silver box he had set on the table.

"No, but..."

"Were you seen?"

The man named Jack fidgeted, pushed food around on his plate. "The kid's doctor came in, but I made sure he didn't get a good look..."

He moved so suddenly, his chair crashing to the ground.

In an almost graceful movement, shoving Jack's chair forward so that he was trapped between chair and table, yanking his head back to expose his throat, the slim box pressed against it.

His eyes fixed on her.

She huddled back in her chair, trying to escape the sudden rumbling of violence. The sudden flash of his anger. Even though it didn't seem directed at her. His eyes were still on her and she quaked beneath their gaze.

Just like the storm.

"I don't like doing this, Eva." He thumbed a button and a blade slid out of the box with silent, deadly, mechanical precision. Jack was struggling against him now, but uselessly, pinned like a moth to a board. "But he's caused me too many problems."

He slid the blade gracefully across Jack's neck, slicing deeply into his unshaven throat.

And Eva screamed.


	8. Another Day's Work, Part Eight

"Is this the place?"

"Yeah." Joe frowned scratching at his beard. "Classy place. I hear they put fresh sawdust down every night." He shook his head. "What the hell was she doing in a place like this, Claire?"

"I don't know." She glanced at him out of the corner of her eye. "You okay, Joey?"

"Yeah..."

Her pager went off, loud and jarring in the car. She glanced at the glowing numbers. "Shit, it's Rellings."

Joe grinned suddenly. "Your secret admirer."

"Shut up, Joey."

He shrugged. "It's not me he's paging in the middle of the night."

"We'd better see what he wants." She nodded at the bar. "This can wait."

"No." Joe put his hand on the inside of the door. "Rellings hates me, it'd be better if you go talk to him. I'll talk to the bartender." He rubbed at his eyes. "I could do with a drink anyway."

"Okay. You want me to come back after I'm done with Rellings?"

"No, I'll get a taxi." He opened the door and got out of the car, leaning against the frame. "Go home and get some sleep."

"Okay."

He grinned again. "Have fun."

"Shut up Joey."

xxxXXXxxx

Reilling had learned long ago that he should interview a victim of a violent crime more than once. Having gone back to the hospital a second time after VanWingen had been treated had certainly yielded him more in the way of identifying his attacker. The young doctor's memory had improved as his distance from the attack lengthened. Not the opposite.

He had discovered it was a toss up. Some witnesses's memory got better, some got pathetically worse. Ya buys your tickets and ya takes your chances. This time the chance had paid off and VanWingen had come up with some more perceptions and description of the man who had tried to finish the job on Miles McCabe.

The one that helped the best right now was the sweat shirt. The one that read Marker's Pub, Belfast, Ireland. Not a common clothing imprint this side of the pond; in fact, uncommon enough that it would have stood up in court if Reilling had wanted to pick up its wearer for questioning. Not that that would do much good in this case.

Considering that the wearer was lying on his back in a congealed pool of his own blood, his throat slashed savagely from ear to ear–literally–it didn't look like Reilling was going to get much out of him in the line of questioning. But there were other ways of asking a man where he'd been, what he'd done that didn't require his being cooperative, or even his being alive.

Reilling already had gone pocket diving and fished out a hotel room key and the information that it probably wasn't a robbery, or it had been interrupted in progress. If this guy was as efficient and skilled as Reilling thought he was, then it was more like an interruption of some kind that forced him to leave the body there with identification on him and his pockets not cleaned out of anything that could track him. There was no wallet, but a wad of cash, the hotel room key and of all things a library card with the name Jack--the last name smudged into illegibility–and the address of the local homeless shelter on it as an address. The hotel would be the easy start and as soon as Claire... Detective Maryland... arrived, he intended to see what was behind door number thirty-one. She, of course, would be welcome to tag along if she wanted. Professional courtesy.

He tried to tell himself that it was just that hers was the first number on the card and that's why he called her instead of her partner, Kerrigan. Or that Kerrigan was just a fast car in the slow lane, flashy, impudent. The kind the women liked because they couldn't see past his dog and pony show. That he just didn't like the man.

Claire Maryland was out of his league anyway. Way out. Her kind of woman didn't go for his type of man. Simple as that. So there was no sense in adolescent fantasies. But it wouldn't hurt that she worked the case, that he got to be around her a little. She had seemed like a sharp cop, no reason it couldn't be her rather than her partner that he called to the scene in the middle of the night.

And right on cue...

The streetlights were faint in this area but the still caught the glitter of her hair, kind of a golden red in this light as she strode toward him, her gait not quite a woman's but definitely nothing masculine either. Purposeful. A graceful strength, like a lioness stalking the savannah. Oh, man, Reilling, he laughed at himself, get a life. And a grip.

Cause here she is.

xxxXXXxxx

The bar was almost deserted, just a few lone barflies remained, holding onto their drinks like they offered salvation. Staring up at the small tv screen, angled above the bar, casting its benevolent gaze across the bar. It was sad, a bar like this one, this time of night. There was a pall of desperation and loss that was almost palpable when he walked in the door. One of the women looked up from her drink. She smiled and brushed her hair away from her face in a gesture that might have been fetching when she was fifteen years younger and ten years less into the bottle. When he walked right on by, her face sagged and the frown lines settled back around her mouth as she hunched back over her drink.

Joe walked over to the bar, settling down on one of the unoccupied stools, playing with his cigarette and lighter.

The barman, a tall young man, his dark hair razored short, with a neatly trimmed goatee, pushed himself reluctantly away from the bar he was leaning against "What can I get you?"

"Whiskey."

"Coming up." The barman lifted a stocky tumbler, pressing it against the optic.

"You worked here long?"

"Every night, the last couple of years." The barman turned around, setting a beer mat on the bar, then the whiskey on top of it. "Why?"

Joe pulled the photo out of his pocket. "You ever see this girl before?"

The barman took a step away from him, his eyes narrowing suspiciously.

"Relax. I'm a cop. So. Do you know her?"

"Yeah I know her. Eva."

"She come in here often?"

"Often enough." The barman opened a beer and slid it down the bar to one of the barflies. "Two or three times a month."

"Did she come here by herself?"

"Yeah, usually." The barman hesitated for a second. "Although there was this one guy, early tonight..."

Joe felt his heart leap. "Yeah? What about this guy?"

He shrugged. "He had a thing for her. Kept staring at her all evening. I was going to throw him out." He shrugged again. "They started talking and seemed to hit it off. Left hand in hand. Lucky bastard."

"Could you describe him?"

"Not really. We were busy tonight and it was a while ago, early. Tall, well dressed, think he had a beard." A shout went up from the far end of the bar. "Anything else I can help you with?"

"No, thanks."

The barman drifted away.

Leaving Joe alone, staring at the photo of the beautiful lonely girl.

He lit a cigarette, letting the tendrils of smoke twist across her face, stroking her cheek with a gentle caress.

xxxXXXxxx

"What's going on Mark?" Claire put her hands on her hips and glanced around the crime scene. "Why did you page me?"

Mark Reilling swallowed hard, trying to moisten his throat long enough to speak. "I...eh...we think we found your boy." He glanced at her out of the corner of his eye, her body covered by the business suit, barely hinting at the curves he knew were hidden there. He looked away hastily.

'She's a married woman for Chrissakes. Get a hold of yourself!'

"Where is he?"

Her voice dragged him out of his daydream. "Eh? Oh he's over there." He led her over to the body and hunkered down next to it, conscious of her just behind him, of the smell of her perfume. "Somebody cut his throat. Did a good job of it as well."

"You find anything on him?" Maybe there was still a hope, still a chance to find Eva before it was too late.

"Yeah." Reilling fumbled briefly through his pockets and lifted out the hotel key, still perfectly reserved in the evidence bag. "I guess the killer got distracted before he could finish going through the vic's pockets."

She took the bag from him, her face suddenly pale in the lights of the emergency vehicles, her hands shaking. "I think we need to start looking for a second victim."

"Yeah?"

Claire nodded, brushing a curl off her forehead "Yeah. Her name's Eva Rossi."

xxxXXXxxx


End file.
